


Forever Isn't for Everyone

by Get_Going



Series: Soundtrack to Disaster [1]
Category: Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Riverdale (TV 2017), Riverdale (TV 2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon Divergence, Drunk Jughead, F/M, Jughead loves Betty, Orphan Betty, Poisonous Relationships, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse, bad language, eventual gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-13 03:24:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11175987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Get_Going/pseuds/Get_Going
Summary: Zombie-Apocalypse AU: Nursing a drinking problem and a perpetual state of despondency, Jughead Jones is in a bad way. Sister lost, parents missing: Right now his biggest problem is that the sweet & sour Betty Cooper relies on him for survival, but he'll be damned if he brings her down with him.Edit: Originally a one shot in a series of drabbles, this work has taken on a mind of it's own.Now a multi-chapter project.(Eventual graphic depictions of violence).





	1. Santa Ana

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for stopping by, kids.   
> Your feedback is always appreciated, and suggestions in the form of comments are always welcomed. 
> 
> This series is just as surprising to me as it is to you. :)

_You want some company?_

Betty can still taste the words on her lips. Some days they’re less bitter than others. Most days they taste like blood and poison, as thick and stale as the nightmare she’d experienced that afternoon at the bank. Who could have blamed her, really? The girl thought she’d been left all alone. Her mother dead by her own fragile, unstable hands- and her father no better off. He was dead to her, anyway, and in her mind she was on her own. No family left: An orphan.

And then he walked right in the front fucking door like he owned the place.

In those few short moments, her whole body had been overwhelmed by an effervescent sense of relief- An explosive feeling of joy among all the chaos which swam unbridled in her mind with no end in sight. Here was a man who was not yet shaken to his core. Unafraid of the situation that slowly unfolded before them and instead of becoming a victim, deciding instead to be a _survivor_. 

Maybe God didn’t think she deserved to be alone after all.

Boy, was she naive.

__

It’s been six month’s almost to the day, and not one of them went by without her wondering if today would be the day that he left her on her own. Sometimes Betty could feel the restlessness radiating from Jughead, and she assumed it was because he never truly felt free to make any of his own decisions. Not without taking her into consideration. Not without having to play it safe- without having to keep her safe. What Betty failed to realize was that Jughead _wanted_ to stay. He’d known he wanted to stay with her, to protect her, to _save_ her, from the very second she’d asked to tag along.

And yet, he hasn't been able to figure out what sort of salvation she thought he could offer. He lacked half a conscience, and his soul felt as dirty as his own blood-soaked hands. And Betty.. Betty was pure. Betty was pure and vivacious and full of life. Betty was _beautiful_.

Jughead?

**Jughead was a bastard.**

"Eyes on the road, Tiger." Jughead snaps, and he can feel his jaw tighten beneath his skin. He doesn’t mean to be so stern with her all the time, but he doesn’t deserve those thoughtful glances she’s always tossing his way. He definitely has no right to stare back into those pleading emerald eyes with an assuring smile, to tell her that everything will be okay.

So he doesn’t.

He’s not sure that it ever will be.

"Sorry." Betty mumbles, only half under her breath. She’s sitting straight up in the drivers seat, her back barely grazing the sun-faded leather of the dusty old pontiac. Both of her hands are gripping the wheel, at ten-and-two, respectively. Her fingers are wrapped so tightly against the torn fabric that her knuckles are almost ghost-white. Sometimes Jughead wonders about the softness of her touch. The _cool_ feel of her skin against his. What those fingers would feel like wrapped around **him**.

Jughead _is_ a bastard.

"Right. Just," He swallows hard, desperately trying to force down the lump in his throat which seems to have formed out of nowhere, "Drive."

"Okay." Betty’s voice is soft and sweet, like it always is when she’s speaking to him. Even when she’s inches from his face and screaming at him about how stupid she was for believing that he’d ever care about anything other than himself. Even when she’s sobbing in his lap, apologizing for saying such terrible things and wondering at point she had become such a monster.

Even then, an Angel’s song would pale in comparison to the melodic way her voice swam through his ears and seeded itself so effortlessly into his bloodstream.

"Jughead? Hellooo-" She drags out the "o" much longer than necessary, finally releasing her death grip on the wheel so that she can swing her hand in front of his face, snapping twice for effect, "I said, which way are we going?" She’s annoyed now, making no attempt to hide her frustrated sigh.

The ghost of a smile touches Jughead’s lips, but Betty doesn’t see it.

A shift in his weight is all it takes for him to lean forward, just enough to gauge the time of day by taking a quick glance at the sky. It’ll be dark soon, and he has no desire to be driving down an abandoned desert highway at night. Especially not in this part of the country.

"Head in whichever direction you like. Just pick one quick, blondie. Don’t want to get caught out here after dark." He settles back into his seat then, kicking his dusty booted feet up over the dashboard. Instantaneously, he’s crossing his arms over his chest, and soon his eyes have slipped shut. He doesn’t know how long they drive for, but for the remainder of the ride it’s all silence. Betty doesn’t even bother to turn on the radio.

Jughead doesn’t mind. He’s not really sleeping, and somehow the sound of her steady breathing keeps him at ease.

—Until she suddenly slams on the break and sends him flying forward. Luckily he hadn’t been asleep, or his arms may not have gone out in enough time to stop his face from hitting the windshield.

"Jesus christ, Betty.” He doesn’t mumble. His voice is almost ferocious as his body swivels from it’s embrace against the dashboard. He’s turned to the girl in the drivers seat, who’s hands were once again attached to the wheel. For once, she doesn’t look terrified. For some reason Betty seemed to look terrified _all_ the time. Sometimes Jughead wondered if he was really that terrible to be around.

"Don’t worry. I knew you weren’t sleeping. That pretty face of yours was in no immediate danger." Betty’s lips upturn at the corners, her smile almost too perfect, and Jughead knows shes being a smart-ass. He doesn’t care, and doesn’t try to hide how his eyes dart to her mouth while she smirks at him. He doesn’t know how it’s possible for her lips to always look so God damned soft.

He clears his throat and sits back in the car’s seat once again, but only long enough to grab the handle of the door and force it open. He swings his legs out first, and immediately notices how little of an impact the waning sun has had on the temperature outside. His legs are covered in thick, lightly torn dark denim jeans, and in no time he’s regretting the decision.

"I'll check the parameter," Jughead speaks, his voice low and clouded, "I trust you can handle the bag?" He knows she can handle it. They’ve done this a million times before, but he wants to hear her say yes. He turns his head so that he’s watching her over his shoulder, his eyes settling once again over her impossibly perfect mouth. He wants to see her say it.

Betty sighs at first, her lips parting slightly before she answers, “Yes, Juggie, I can handle the bag.” She slams the car in park and throws the door open, wasting no time in stepping out and making her way to the dented trunk of the grubby car. She doesn’t look up at him. Instead she just jams her hand into her back pocket, pulling out the trunk key that she'd stashed there the last time they did this. Mere moments pass and she's already rummaged through the space and pulled the black pack with their rations, securing it over her arm before closing the hatch once more and making her way back to the driver's seat. 

They’d be out of gas soon, and Jughead knew in his gut what that meant. Vehicles along this stretch of desert were far and few between. Siphoning gas had gotten them this far, but before long they'd be without a reliable set of wheels. The hot sun would dehydrate them both, pushing them to their limits and testing their patience with each other. They'd get hungry. Weak. If they were lucky, they'd find solace in an abandoned shelter before the walkers found them in their vulnerable state. But the odds kept thinning day by day, and he knows that Betty would have been, and most certainly still _is_ better off without him. 

Better off outside of this suicide mission.

He should leave her with the rest of the gasoline and send her on her way. The opposite direction- somewhere she would have a chance. He’s done no good by anyone in his life, and maybe this was his last chance. Jughead didn't want to bring Betty down with him. 

Betty watches as Jughead slips inside of a glass door that leads to the front office. She hadn't noticed any undead on the sleepy stretch of road that had led them here, and so she was hopeful that anyone (or thing) that had remained was long gone. 

She doesn't realize it, but her fingers are pulling nervously at the lightly frayed fabric of the dirty, gut-stained tanktop that hangs loosely from her slowly thinning torso. As practiced, she stays inside the vehicle until she see's Jughead wave from the second floor of the motel, partially shrouded by a deteriorating white bannister that kept once-a-plenty (maybe) patrons from falling onto the pavement below.

It's a seedy, stinky old place, but he made the sweep fast, which was almost always good news. 

Betty swings the door open, and she immediately feels like she’s playing a round of deal or no-deal, except in their case there’s never a winning door. How many beds would they get? Would there be any leftover water pressure? Would there be burn holes in the carpet? Any dead bodies? How many bloody bullet holes in the walls?

She actually counted once. The last place they stayed.

Twelve.

It was disgusting.

This time she’s relatively surprised at how clean the room actually is. It doesn’t smell like death and dust, and the walls are coated in paint and not some terrible 70’s style wallpaper. There are actually two beds, which she silently thanks the lord for. She’d shared a bed with Jughead before, and it was unnerving. She didn’t like how he came to bed stinking of alcohol and expired cigarettes. Or how sometime in the middle of the night he’d slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. 

She didn’t like how well she fit against him, or how safe and comfortable it made her feel.

"Dibs!" She can’t help but yell, turning to shove the bag against Jugheads hand. She only pauses for a moment when their fingers graze, and she looks up to find him staring at her with that stupid, smug half-smirk of his. The one where his eyes are all smiles.. And she practically evaporates in front of him.

Betty inhales sharply, swivels on her heel and tosses her thin jacket on the clearly queen sized bed, her entire body following suit. She bounces on the cheap matress only once, because she can hear the way the springs sound like they’re going to come poking through the overly-warn material. She’s facing Jughead now who’s still standing in the door way. He just watches her, his hands grip tightening around the handle of their bag. Betty’s arms are stretched over her head and she’s pulling at the blonde knot on the top, the entirety of her weight being supported by her legs which are tucked underneath her.

She swears she can hear Jughead choke on his own intake of air, but he just drops the dark bag behind the door and kicks it shut behind him, trying way too hard (she thinks) to avoid her gaze. 

He lays a fixed blade against the top of a dirty desk adjacent to the girl.

"I saw a bar attached to this shit hole," He starts, already shrugging off the too-heavy-for-mexico coat and wasting no time in tossing it over the back of some wobbly cedar chair, "Food's probably expired, but I’m willin’ to bet they’ve got tequila." He doesn’t bother to look at her again before he tucks a curtain of dark hair beneath a blood soaked beanie and makes his way back out of the door.

Betty sighs and sits back against her heels. It’s not abnormal, she doesn’t think, for him to be acting like an ass. It was part of his demeanor, and one of the things she hates about him. She hates it because she often has to bare the brunt of his ever darkening demeanor. Sometimes he calls her names, makes her feel like a burden. At night he yells at her when she wakes him from his nightmares. He says it’s not her place to interfere. Says he deserves whatever torture her ‘so-called God’ delivers to him.

Jughead is a stubborn prick.

Betty adores him.

 

Now she gets off the bed, never bothering to swing one leg over the other. She simply hops off, both feet landing with an obnoxious thud. She wonders if she should follow Jughead. Would he want her company? Betty shakes her head. He _never_ wants company. If he does, he’s certainly reluctant to act like it when she’s around. She’s seen him have a good time- seen him smile a real, genuine, whole-hearted smile. And not just because he’s sucked down an entire bottle of liquor.

Why did it always seem like he was trying so hard to stay miserable?

Things changed slowly, and then all at once after they’d gotten to Mexico. Betty’s birthday came and went, and there was no celebration. Jughead knew because he’d walked in on her sitting, crying, in the middle of some flimsy, cardboard camper bathroom. He sat with her until she had no more tears to cry. Then he patted her on the back, pressed a firm kiss to her temple, and pulled her to her feet.

He said, “You’re an survivor now, baby girl. It’s time we both get our shit together.”

It was never the same after that.

Betty shakes her head to loosen her thoughts from her mind. They’re wound tight, constricting her brain with excessive force, and she almost feels like she can’t breathe. Quickly, she grabs the fixed-blade and slides it into the leather holster attached to her jeans. If Jughead didn’t want her to follow him, he really shouldn’t have been so quick to tell her where he was going.

 

Jughead takes the time to savor the bitter taste of the tequila as it snakes it’s way down his throat. He does the same with the second, third, and fourth shots before finally taking a moment to breathe. He doesn’t hesitate when he pushes the shot glasses forward, lined up straight, one after the other. “Another round.” He demands, though he's obviously talking to himself. 

His voice drops an octave, but he replies to himself right away. 

"Coming right up." 

And then he's sloppily pouring himself four more shots, caramel colored liquor splashing against the wooden bartop beneath the glasses. 

"What’s the occasion?" Jughead, for whatever reason, continues the conversation with himself. Don't think it hasn't crossed his mind that he could be having an _actual_ conversation with his beautiful sidekick. However, that possibility bares no weight on his responses.

Jughead snickers. It’s not a good humored kind of snicker. It’s harsh and acidic, but he swallows the noise and chases it with shot number five.

"Tomorrow’s my sisters birthday." The words roll off of his tongue with ease, and he doesn’t so much as flinch as he slams the glass back down on the counter with a little more force than he’d intended. The pressure cracks the dirty crystal all the way up, and a shard of glass now floats in the abandoned tequila below. 

Another menacing chuckle slips past chapped lips, his body weight shifting beneath him as he leans into the bar (albeit involuntarily; the liquor hits him much faster than it would have if he didn’t have an empty stomach). 

He picks up the next glass and raises it into the air as if to say ‘cheers’ to his reflection in the bars mirror.

"If we’re celebrating, you really should let me get a drink first."

A grumble comes from somewhere deep within the pit of his stomach. Her voice alone is enough to stir his nerves, but he feels nothing but ease when he turns and looks over his shoulder, unable to hide the the slow growing smirk that’s crept across his mouth. Her stance is anything but inviting. In fact, her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, hip cocked, foot tapping against the scuffed up wooden floors.

He thinks she’s stunning.

She’s pissed.

"Hey there, sweetheart. See you missed me." He turns to the bar, now facing away from Betty and her steaming stature.

In an instant Betty’s rooted on the stool next to Jughead, and for a moment she looks uncomfortable, like she can’t bare to be sitting so close to some stinking drunk.

He reconsiders his observation as soon as her arm slides forward and across the sticky bar, easily crossing through what Jughead would typically consider **his** space. He doesn’t mind though, because he can feel the heat radiating off of her skin and it’s enough to make the hair on his arm stand up straight.

"Don’t flatter yourself," Betty retorts, taps the shot glass against the one that’s still in his hand, and brings it to her lips, "You didn’t tell me tomorrow was your birthday." The words barely escape from around the rim of the glass and fuck, she swallows that bitter-sweet liquid in one large gulp. Jughead is thanking God, any God, that he didn’t have a mouth full of it himself or he would have spat it all over the front of him.

"Now, where’d you learn to swallow like that? Not the good little Mary-church girl we thought you were, hmm?"

"Fuck off." Her words are sharp, but her face has softened, and her lips have parted into a grin of her own.

Jughead sucks in a bout of air and feigns a pained look, his hand hovering over his chest as fingers tap against the space over his heart. “Ouch, you’re killin’ me, baby.”

"Shut up." Betty struggles though a hiccup.

Betty, who hasn’t had a drop to drink since **that** night.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" She presses the matter once more, this time completely unwilling to let Jughead brush her comment aside.

"I said it’s my _sisters_ birthday, Betty. Or do you need to clean the shit out of your ears?" And suddenly Jughead is all grumpy and pissed off again, but this time Betty doesn’t let it go. Her fingertips land somewhere atop the pale olive skin that stretches tight over his forearm, and he doesn’t seem to mind the gentle stroke of her fingers that accompany the touch.

"Your sister, JB? With whom you share a birthday? Or don’t you remember telling me that in all of your binge drinking glory?" She snatches her hand away from his arm and instantly he deflates. He’s not made to feel any better when she brings it swiftly to the side of his head and jabs the edge of his temple with her finger. "I can’t believe you were going to let on like it was _nothing_."

Jughead scoffs and turns his head away sharply, and this time he’s sipping the tequila because, well, he can barely taste it anymore anyway. “What’s it matter,” He mumbles, his speech clearly beginning to slur, “No one’s around to care anymore.”

"That’s bullshit!" Betty’s not thinking when she slaps the glass straight out of Jughead’s hand, but she’s surprised when he just sits there and takes it. Like he deserves it. The Jughead she came to know would be outraged- yelling and causing a scene because, Jesus Christ, the audacity of this girl to go and drench his only t-shirt in alcohol.

But this.. This is more like the Jughead she remembers.

"I care. God damn it Jug, I care! You know I care, because if I didn’t I wouldn’t fucking be here. You’re so caught up in yourself. You... You..." 

Betty’s on her feet immediately, fingers curled tight against the calloused skin of her palms. The force of her sudden movement knocks the stool from under her and on to the floor, and Jughead's face is as blank as a slate, but he’s watching her. He doesn’t take his eyes _off_ of her.

Her shoulders are trembling, and her chest is heaving, and the girl can barely breathe.

"You’re so selfish." Betty’s voice is barely above a whisper but it’s all she can muster. Crimson spreads across her cheeks as her skin flushes, and she’s not entirely sure if it’s from adrenaline or embarrassment. She suddenly feels like a child throwing a temper tantrum, but she doesn’t falter. An abrupt tsunami of emotions threatens to completely overtake her in this moment.

But then, she’s gone.

 

Betty’s barely back at the room before Jughead comes crashing through the door. She curses herself for not thinking to bolt it, but reminds herself that the flimsy frame of the door wouldn't have provided much by way of keeping him out, anyway.

He slams the door behind him but, after that his movement stops. Jughead’s just staring at her now, his expression impossible to read. Dirty fingertips are pressed angrily against his hips, and she see’s his brow raise while he’s no doubt entertaining some passing thought- perhaps what he’s going to say to her. _How he’s going to tear her down_. His lips part like he’s going to speak, but maybe he’s thought better of it. 

Jughead licks the words away by passing his tongue quickly over his bottom lip.

"You.." Jughead finally speaks and he raises his hand, pointing lazily at Betty who’s barely ten feet away. His eyes narrow in a way that seems involuntary, and she wonders if he’e seeing two of her. "Selfish? You think **I’m** selfish?” His finger is pointed back at himself by the end of it, his body leaning into his own touch. The expression that paints itself across his face reads incredulous and Jughead can’t fucking believe that this girl has the **nerve**. “Look at you. You’re alive. You’d be dead in a ditch on the side of the road right now if it wasn’t for me-"

"Not a day goes by that you don’t let me forget it, believe me!" Betty’s taken a step forward while she cuts him off but she doesn’t remember doing it. Her fingers are pressed even tighter into her fists now, tips clenched so tightly she can feel the prick of her fingernails against her palms. "If you don’t want to be here, I don’t know why you stick around. I’m not some burden for you to have to put up with. I can take care of myself, I don’t need you."

"You think I’m here because you **need** me?" The way he mimics her words plucks at her nerves. He sounds sour, and angry. Betty wonders if this is it. Maybe this is the night he leaves her for good.

"Then why?"

Jugheads arms stretch out at his sides and she thinks he looks a little bit like a drunken angel.

"No, no that’s not good enough." Her steps are more hurried now and this time they’re intentional, though the gap between the two of them closes much more quickly than she’d intended. "Answer me with words." She stomps her foot hard to solidify her demand. "Now, Juggie!”

Betty tries so fucking hard to disguise the knot in her stomach that forms as his name rolls off of her tongue. The girls breath hitches. Voice cracks. _Now is not the time to be weak, Betty._

The noise in Jughead's throat starts off like a gurgle, and grows quickly into something much more ferocious. The words tear through his chest and he can feel the pressure building, but he can’t stop them.

" **You** , Betty!" He roars, and now he’s in her face, and he’s crouched down to her eye level. His hands are on her face and even though he smells like the belly of a brewery, his touch is nothing but gentle as he thumbs the skin over her cheek bones.

"For fucks sake.."

He breathes the words into Betty’s mouth because suddenly his lips are over hers, and he can feel her inhaling them as she takes her own deep breath. She’s frozen- he can feel her go limp beneath him, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead she seems to lean in to him, her body fitting like a puzzle piece against his own.

**Perfectly.**


	2. Indian Springs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've been on the road for days, but Betty's behind the wheel and Jughead can't escape her burning questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of time keeping in this universe.  
> It's not really as relevant as the interaction between characters and the incidences in each chapter. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This is not beta'd - self edited.  
> Don't forget to comment. :)

Time is truly nothing but an illusion. 

Numbers didn't matter anymore. By now, any of them would be hard pressed to recite which day of the week it was, and the significance of which month they were living in varied greatly by region traveled. 

In the southwest corner of what was once the United States, what mattered most was the _sun_. Daylight savings was a thing of the past, because clocks didn't exist anymore. There would be no batteries left to replace the dead one inside of your grandfathers old Rolex. No bright red numbers on an old alarm clock to wake you up in the morning.

The sun was the judge, jury and executioner now, and what was left of the world would have to succumb to her sooner or later. 

Daylight was _everything_. It had become increasingly important to stay aware and in tune to your surroundings as the days went on. Surprises were not welcome in this new world, and with the darkness came uncertainty. There were hardly any moments that would pass that didn't require the attentive desire to survive, and the ones that slipped through the cracks of your run down psyche would make you feel both immensely guilty and unequivocally alive. 

The days grow longer. Hotter. Somehow Jughead Jones has managed to keep himself alive. There are times where he has to stop and wonder if it's really him that's looking out for Betty anymore, or if she's worked some slight of hand magic and managed to reverse each of their respective roles in their entirety. 

The girl had become his keeper of sorts. 

Gone were the days where Betty would perch herself at the edge of his bed, legs pulled tight against her chest as she watched him toss and turn through another nightmare. When he cried out for Jellybean, face pale and drenched in sweat, she didn't flock worriedly to his side and try to wake him. 

Instead, pure and thoughtful Betty would simply slide her arms around his middle, tucking herself against his side as tight as she could muster without shaking him from his slumber. Somewhere along the way, her physical presence had become a cardinal comfort that Jughead never realized he was missing. Even in his sleep, the warmth of her body and the ever-steady brag of her heart beating against him could bring him down to ground level. 

Betty is a beautiful fucking luxury that Jughead simply does not deserve. 

They never talked about his dreams. She never brought it up in the morning, or tried to make small talk out of it while they drove on for miles, unsure of their destination. When they argued, Betty would never throw it in his face, or fault him for keeping secrets. 

Because she knew. They _all_ did. Everyone who was still alive. There are some things you don't feel like you're ever going to be ready to talk about, and that's okay. It **has** to be. 

\-----

The Pontiac had completely shit the bed somewhere around Tijuana. The inability (and desire) to keep track of the weeks as they churned by meant that they used landmarks as a way to mark specific bouts of time. 

' _You remember, Juggie. I told you that around Santa Ana._ '

' _No, Betty. It was before that. Batopilas._ '

The scramble to find a new vehicle was exhausting. Being so close to the border had become increasingly dangerous, especially now that survivalists had strong armed their way into military bases where catastrophe had struck. Heavy artillery had fallen into the hands of extremists, and as humanity had proven time and time again, the simplicity of man could not be trusted with that kind of power. 

It took them at least two full sun cycles to make their way on foot- as far outside of the city limits that they could get while _still_ remaining close enough to any route that would make sure they were still headed in the right direction. 

**North**. 

They both decided that it would be easier to get into the United States on foot. They could worry about a new car later on, when they wouldn't need to find a way to drive over walls or through wires that would inevitably remain abandoned until they crumbled or tarnished. 

If she's being honest, Betty isn't entirely certain of their destination. Just north, up the west coast. That's the most she's ever been able to get out of Jughead. She finds herself frustrated at his stubborn attitude: Always one hundred percent willing to shut her down with no questions asked as soon as she became too inquisitive. 

If she was just a little more headstrong, maybe she would walk away. 

It's not like she hasn't thought about it. 

The problem was, and still remains, that Betty can simply slip her eyes shut and the thought is immediately replaced by the feeling of his fingers grazing the soft skin of her jaw. Thumbs brushing over the pale freckles peppered along her cheeks. Soft mumbles against the crook of her neck in the middle of the night when he can't sleep. Tightening arms around her middle, pulling her closer, if it were even possible. 

The safest place in the world. 

And the worst. 

\-----

The greatest part about the south west was the bone dry heat. 

At the suns highest point, the two of them would do their best to retreat inside, which became easier the further you drove outside of the cities. There were desecrated homes, some having fallen into ill repair. Farms with crops long dead, though the ghost of old stalks would blow gently in the breeze as they drove by. It was morbid to think about how everything here was once alive. The plants. Animals. _People_. 

But the time for grieving had long passed. 

Natural selection tore its way through North America with such a ferocity that it had taken mere months for survivors occupying homes and businesses to die out. 

Betty hasn't decided if she thinks one might be more lucky to starve to death, or get cornered by a walker. She would be lying if she said she hasn't thought about both and wondered if her own fate might one day be similar. How long would her and Jughead be able to survive on their own? Could they stand the test of time and prove resourceful enough to live out the rest of their days until a ripe old age? 

... Does either of them really want to?

"What's going on in that pretty little head of yours, Betts?" Jugheads feet are kicked up against the dash of the rusty blue Jeep Cherokee they picked up somewhere near Desert Hills. He's pushed the seat all the way back, like he's ready for a nap at any moment. 

"Hmm?" The dull haze of her stare comes back into focus all at once, her fingers loose against the steering wheel as she relaxed back against the drivers seat. For some reason, Jughead had taken quite a liking to having his own personal driver tote him around. Not that Betty minded at all.

"You've been awfully quiet." He pauses, glancing over at her, offering an inquisitive look from beneath the beanie that nearly covers his eyes. " **Not** that I object to the silence." 

It's important that Betty doesn't quite get the opportunity to grasp at just how desperately Jughead looks forward to the dronings on of the blonde as they drove along for hours. 

She could sing the alphabet seven different ways from Sunday and he'd be perfectly content. For fucks sake, he would probably ask her to do it again. 

That would establish a level of comfort that ultimately results in lowered inhibitions. Sometimes... sometimes he slips up. Don't think he doesn't damn himself for being nothing but human. 

"I-well. I guess I just.." Betty's brow crinkles, unsure of how to string together her thoughts into a line that he might be able to follow. As much time as they've spent together, there were a great many things that they never talked about. 

Real things. 

The **honest** things. 

"Jug, how many people do you think are still alive out there?" Betty questions, her tone as open and unadorned as he has ever heard it. There is nothing loaded about her query, and Jughead doesn't quite have it in him to pretend like he hasn't thought about it, too. 

"I think... There are fewer and fewer everyday." And he's being completely honest. "I think there were a lot of people who never had a chance. Probably a lot who had their chance and blew it. I don't.. I don't think there's a lot, Betty."

He's still looking at her, his side eye studying the soft curves of her face as her jaw flexes beneath the bluntness of his answer. Her eyes stay fixated on the road, but he's not sure she hasn't realized he's staring.

"Who are you trying to find, Jughead?" 

There was no way Jughead was expecting those words to fall from her mouth. Not here, in a confined space where he was likely to clam up and immediately go on the defensive. Every time she had ever even hinted at the topic with the tiniest bit of curiosity, it had resulted in an instant stitch of anger.

He wants to snap at her. To tell her that it's none of her fucking business, and for the last time, she needed to _stop_ asking. Why was it so important for her to know? He never pressed her for information on her past. There were never any questions about whether or not she'd (perhaps) had any family left alive; Or why she gave up on them so easily if that was the case. 

Cousin. Grandmother. Husband, maybe?

Chapped, pale colored lips fall open and closed more than once without him noticing. Betty cranes her neck to look at Jughead more closely, observing his reaction in the absence of his words. She thinks that maybe he's _actually_ going to give her an answer this time- the gesture he makes with his mouth (probably) an indication that he's _thinking_ on it. 

Really, and maybe for the first time, he's just considering the fact that he wasn't the only one with a past before this all started. 

Jugheads tongue darts out over his lips, almost as though he were lubricating them in order to make way for his retort:

"Why don't you ever talk about _your_ family?" The man's tone was sour. Accusatory. Jughead's dry hands reach up to adjust the lapels of his button up, smoothing them over as he exhales an irritated breath. 

Don't do it. 

Don't blow up at her. 

Again, Betty's brow knits over her aquamarine stare and Jughead can't be sure, but he thinks that her irises begin to dampen beneath the pressure of his hot gaze. 

The words that leave his mouth slice against her conscience like razor blades. Betty tries her hardest not to think about her family- ever - and while she attempts to blink away the warm tears that threaten her eyes, all she manages to do is force them from her tear ducts and down her cheeks. She can feel her eyes redden beneath the mist, the mixture of sudden moisture and the dry Nevada air irritating her vision right away. 

"Why the fuck do you always do this, Jug? Why do you try to hurt me? What have I done to deserve that?" Betty huffs now, peeling one hand from the steering wheel and wiping a salty tear from her face. "You're the only fucking person I've seen in almost a year. The only one I haven't had to put a bullet in, or slice open. Have you ever stopped to think about that?" 

She doesn't realize it, but her voice rises a level with every sentence that forces past her lips. 

"Of **COURSE** you haven't. You're too busy thinking about **Jughead**." 

Betty's foot comes down hard against the brake, and the vehicle goes from sixty to zero in just seconds, nearly throwing both of them through the windshield. 

Her small body swivels in the drivers seat, turning to face the dumbfounded man more fully. Out in front of her, her hand invades the air and waves angrily as a slew of outraged words continue on their assault against Jughead. 

"I never push you. **Never**. And you're so... So..." Betty chokes down a sudden gasp of air, " _Mean_." 

Jughead is incredulous. He stares blatantly at Betty while she yells at him. Her face is scrambled and tears pour from her eyes, staining the dingy blue t-shirt she was wearing. He's sure now that she's crying out of anger. Frustration. It has almost nothing to do with being sad, but having grown heated at the _audacity_ of Jughead. 

"If you can't talk to me.. If-If you can't afford me this one simple thing now that I have **nothing** left," She gasps, air filling her lungs and allowing her to push forward with her threat, "Then get out. Get out, **now.** " 

Dark brows furrow over half lidded eyes, and Betty had never noticed before now prominent the green flecks were in Jugheads dark blue eyes when they were narrowed in all of his abashment. 

"Betts.." 

Jughead actually has the audacity to push a pleading tone, begging her with his voice and one simple word: A term of endearment he used when he was trying to provide her with comfort. He's facing her too now, leaning closer to her as though the narrowed proximity would encourage her to stop yelling at him. 

Instead, it pisses her off. 

Before Jughead has the chance to understand the purpose behind her movement, Betty's arm comes back, allowing for a full wind up before she releases it like a tightly pulled rubber band. 

Her fist comes into contact with the left side of Jughead's face, knuckles colliding with the skin and bone on and around his eye. It startles him, knocking him backwards against the boxy door of the Jeep while both of his hands shoot up to cradle against his eye. 

"What the **FUCK** , Betty!" He yells at her, turning to throw open the door and pour himself outside. 

Betty nurses her knuckles with her left hand, clearly sore from the sudden and unexpected contact, a surprise even to herself. She had never hit a person before: Never so much as landed a slap along someone else's face. As many times as she thought about it, no one had ever managed to slip so far under her skin that she exploded in a fit of violent rage. 

No one except Jughead Jones. 

Her own door flies open and she kicks it swiftly, allowing her to jump from the drivers seat and out onto the dusty earth below. Her tattered boots kick the dirt beneath her feet as she stomps her way around the front of the Jeep, carving a path to where Jughead nurses the split in his skin just below his eye caused by the girl herself. 

There would be no need for stitches or antibiotics. 

This was just enough to teach him a fucking lesson about appreciating what he had in front of him: Realized immediately and by both of them simultaneously. 

Betty's foot taps against the ground, brow lifted over an expectant glare. 

Jughead simply stares at her at first, his mouth pressed into a tight line. Nostrils flared. Teeth grinding, as evident by the slight movement in his jaw. His breath quickens, chest heaving quickly as he considers her standing before him. 

Is this it? Is this the opportunity Jughead is going to take to send Betty away? Out of the danger that he would inevitably drag her into? 

He sighs after two long minutes pass, breath becoming more even beneath her heavy eyes. Capturing her gaze is easy, and he holds it without so much as blinking until he sees her face visibly soften. 

"My sister." Jughead breathes into the space between them. 

"Jellybean?" Betty retorts, the word wrapped up like a question but, she already knows the answer. 

"How did you.." 

"You talk about her. In your sleep." The tension in Betty's shoulders dissipates, her hardened resolve disappearing suddenly beneath the hot sun. 

With a quick shuffle of her feet, her shrouded foot kicks gently at Jugheads shin and her arms uncross from her chest as she reaches up then, her fingers ghosting over the cut in the skin beneath his eye.

Without thinking, Jughead leans gently into her touch, appreciating the warmth she offers, even despite the temperature outside. 

"Come on, Bett's. Get back in the Jeep. We've got a long ways to drive."


	3. Mountain Home: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty and Jughead make it to Idaho, well on their way into the mountains.  
> However, they're surprised to find that the farmhouse they've taken shelter  
> in is not as abandoned as they think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!
> 
> This chapter comes in two parts. The second will include the gore we have been missing in these first three installments.  
> I thought that this piece was a good introduction to the calamity that's sure to ensue in the next. 
> 
> Please remember to comment.  
> I'd love to know what you think of my story, and what you think it might be missing.
> 
> | http://bugpocalypse.tumblr.com |

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

The sound of silence is muddled by the unapologetic drone of a leaky pipe. Lukewarm water that should have long been dried still clings to life among the cool, damp plaster of the root cellar. It's uneven walls had surely gone unoccupied for longer than they'd ever been, but now they stood invaded by the thrumming of three hard beating hearts- and one that had not for at least seven days.

Beside Jughead, Betty grasps desperately at his bicep, fingers twisting into the poorly stitched fabric of his plaid shirt. She tugs, clutches, and wails against his arm, a loose fit of tears cast freely down her cheeks as she billows a slur of pleas into the air.

"Don't, Juggie. Please don't do this. **Please**! You don't have to do this!"

He doesn't look at her. Not once.

"Betty." He offers hoarsely, thumb pulling back on the hammer of the pistol that rests against his hand, "Cover your ears."

_Bang._

 

\---- _Two Days Prior_ \----

There was a very noticeable change in the atmosphere the further they drove. The intensity of the heat began to give way, allowing for a coolness in the night that the south wasn't able to offer. It's easier to get a better feel for the season once they make it through Nevada. Betty can't help the way she hangs her head haphazardly out the window, flaxen waves flowing in the breeze as Jughead cruises along at a comfortable speed. Every now and then, she sneaks a generous inhale through her nose and she can't deny that the smell of the lush fir and pine leading into the mountains is intoxicating. It sure beat the smell of hot death and sand.

They try not to talk about how peculiar it is that they never meet another car on the road.  
Neither of them wanted to think about what it might mean if they ever did. 

While Betty was sure she wasn't the only one who felt the waves of frustration that came with spending _all_ of your time with the same person, the uncertainty of what the fucking _apocalypse_ had brought out of people was a downright terrifying thought. While scouring the west coast, they'd yet to stumble upon a colony of any sorts. There was no commonwealth of people, hiding away on some miracle farm land paradise. No collective of bodies trying to make a home despite the circumstance. 

It really felt like nothing. 

But that was Nevada. 

Across the border in Idaho, Betty suddenly felt like she was a tourist crossing into a different world. Sadness washes over her briefly as she considers that this is the most she's ever traveled in her life. The places and landmarks she's seen don't hold any significance anymore, and she might never even get the chance to share her experiences with anyone new again.

In the passengers seat, and without Jughead noticing, she shakes her head in an attempt to loosen her darkening thoughts from her mind. Now was not the time. 

Ahead of them, the road remained mostly level. Initially, the plains of Idaho were bare and flat. Ideal for farmland, as indicated by the withered and rotted crops that lined many of the unpaved back roads that they travelled. They passed faded farms, set back away from the roads where there had undoubtedly lived families who had survived for generations off of the land. The rotted corpses of entire herds of cows lined some of the roads; Just past the tarnished crops of corn and wheat. Betty is almost certain that they had died from a lack of food and water. Without someone to tend to them, they wouldn't have made it very long on their own, and at a quick glance it didn't appear that they had been.. Well, eaten. Though she was no expert by any means, even now. 

Betty pulls herself fully back into the same blue Jeep they'd been running with for weeks. Lucky that it hadn't needed any serious repairs short of an oil change. As a joke, they had both deemed her a token of their new found luck. Or at least, some _better_ luck that they had been in desperate need of.

Among _her_ luck: Jughead has offered a bit more fluidity in his forth comings since the day Betty punched him. 

And she had been wrong about the stitches. He needed them, and her unsteady hand certainly hadn't offered the prettiest of sutchers. Jughead assured her that it didn't matter, but every time Betty happens to catch a glimpse of the scar healing beneath his left eye, she can't help but feel a pang of guilt. 

' _You should see the scar I have from JB pushing me out of a tree house._ ' He said to her one day, ' _You'll have to do better than some half-hearted right hook to best that._ ' 

It was an attempt to make her feel better, and it almost did. But Betty had found herself becoming increasingly insatiable as the time passed. More questions. A deeper need for communication. _Connection_. If Jughead was feeling the same way, she couldn't tell. 

It was creating an irritability between them. 

"Do you think we can find some place to crash soon?" She's finally breaking the silence that had festered around them for what seemed like forever. 

"Now, Bett's? The suns still high. We can drive almost another half day." 

Her bright eyes roll, arms folding over her chest. Betty sinks back into her seat like a small girl who's about to throw a temper tantrum as her legs cross similarly before her. The sigh that parts her lips only works to give way to her words, because damn it, she's tired. 

"But Jug, all we ever do is drive. I know you're trying to _get_ somewhere, but I'm tired. I'm hungry. Can't the mountains wait just a little longer?" 

If Jughead was smart, he would have kept his eyes on the road and completely avoided the abominable death stare laid upon him by one, Betty Cooper. To be clear, the glare would only have ever resulted in _his_ death. It's those big, beautiful green eyes that she turns on him, with her lashes batting and her brows arched expectantly. He's so sure that he's going to say no, and the word hovers right on the tip of his tongue. It's just waiting for him to spit it easily, and without remorse. 

But then...

" _Please_ , Juggie?"

God fucking damn it. 

The sound that emanates from his throat is a subtle mix between a groan and a growl. It's rough and husky, and most definitely gets his point across without words. _No._. **No**. NO. 

"Yes, fine, alright. _Jesus_." He's mumbling, and Jughead doesn't need to look at Betty to feel the heat of the megawatt grin radiating from her perfectly dried lips. The smile that paints a picture of victory: He's got it memorized at this point. 

Suddenly feeling frustrated, he reaches for the grubby knit cap that lay upon his head and tugs it from his dirty tresses. A lock of grimy hair falls against his face, escaping the disheveled mop that's gathered against the top of his head. Mindlessly, he lets slip:

"I wouldn't mind a bath. I'm not even sure the word 'ripe' could do us any justice at this point..."

A pale brow raises over Betty's beryl glance, eyes following lazily as Jugheads overgrown hair blew around him like it had a mind of it's own. 

"Lucky for us, it's not uncommon for these old farmhouses to have water pumps." Betty's finger wags in the direction of a shabby old ranch, eyes still stubbornly fixated on Jughead at her side, "And I am _sure_ this one will do." She quips. 

He's rolling his eyes, but Jughead knows she's right.  
It didn't hurt that the smile sprung upon her mouth had yet to falter. That was as good of an incentive as he could hope for. 

\-----

Words cannot describe how incredible it feels to be _clean_.  
There was once a time when Jughead took all of these 'basic' amenities for granted. Showers. Deodorant. Hand soap. 

Bread. Milk. _Fruit snacks_. 

God, would he kill for candy bar that hadn't melted in the swelter of the summer heat. Or a few slices of _bacon_. 

Immediately, his stomach begins to growl beneath the foreign fabric of some dead mans shirt that he had changed into. Betty insisted that it was time for a change of clothes, and that she was _pretty_ sure no one was going to miss them. Still, he didn't think he would ever shake how awkward it felt to be wearing something that belonged to the deceased. It wasn't exactly stealing, but it felt like an invasion of privacy. 

Alternatively, he thinks he looks ridiculous in red checkers. 

"Jug?" 

He's just getting the bottom button fastened when Betty rushes into the room, pushing past the partially closed door as she finishes tugging a plain grey t-shirt down over her stomach. Her breathing is erraticated and rushed; eyes wide with excitement. 

"Betty? What? What is it?" A thoughtless hand swipes through his dampened hair. 

"Jug, come down here, quick." Betty blurts, "There's a car coming up the driveway." 

\-----

There's a fucking standoff in the driveway. 

Of _course_ there is, and truthfully, everyone should have expected it. 

Jughead has his pistol pressed tightly against his hand, aimed perfectly in the direction of the raven haired girl who had cautiously exited the cherry red '73 Mustang. She doesn't bother to put her hands in the air, or otherwise communicate in any way about her intentions. 

So obviously, he has no issue whipping his gun out. 

Betty tucks herself behind him, nearly unable to contain herself as she peeks around, hoping to get a better look at _another living person_. 

"Don't.. Don't you think you're being a little hasty? This is the first person we've seen in God knows how long, and you want to put a bullet in her?"

"Bett's, please." Jughead scoffs, "Who knows what she's got for weapons under her shirt. For Christ's sake, she could have a shotgun tucked inside of the car door."

"Seriously? My God, even in the end of the world, men are _impossible_." Betty steps out from the doorway now, tip toeing forward as she moves around Jughead and out into the open. 

"Betty, _stop_." Jughead hisses, but she ignores him completely. 

"Hi? H-Hey there-" She quips, arms waving slightly in the air as the sun beats high above them in the sky. "Look, we don't want any trouble.." 

Raven hair bounces plainly over the strange girls shoulder as her stare bounces back and forth between Betty and Jughead. She remains silent, her eyes narrowed and lips pulled tight. It's clear to Betty that she's trying her best to deduce whether or not she was going to _die_. 

Damn it, it would not be by either of their hands. 

"Jughead, will you please put the fucking gun down?" The snap comes suddenly, tossed over her shoulder in a more threatening tone than she had originally intended. She's a little nervous now, and it's obvious in the way she wipes her dampening palms against her muddy colored jeans. 

A person. A _person_. **A person**. 

She wants to laugh and be giddy. Betty is excited.  
Looking back later on, she'll be a little disappointed in herself for not being more skeptical of the entire situation. Honestly, though, can you really blame her? 

Betty is taking small steps towards the car still, barefooted and lucky that she hasn't picked up a rusty old nail or stomped across a hard rock yet. The dark haired girl has yet to move, though Betty is pretty sure she can see the smallest quiver of her lower lip from here. Jesus, all alone and she's probably terrified. 

"We wont hurt you," She tosses another distinctive glance over her shoulder at Jughead: an ocular warning for him to put the _God damn_ gun down. Her hands go up in the air, palms facing forward, "I swear."

Finally, the girl slams the car door shut, and it doesn't seem like she even cares whether or not there's still a gun pointed at her. Once her cover disappears, Betty can see that she's fully coordinated from head to toe. She looks clean, and so do her clothes. Dark colors in the violet family swirling over her, all the way down to the pumps that grace her feet.

 _Pumps_. 

"What are you doing here? How did you find us?" She stomps against the ground, hips swaying unforgivingly as she approaches Betty. 

Us?

"Find you?" Betty questions, taking a small step backwards as her arms now fold over her chest, a brow raised in confusion, "We weren't _looking_ for you. Do you own this place? We just assumed..." _That everyone who lived here was dead._ "You know..."

Brushing her dark hair over her shoulder, the strangers lips purse. She stops just short of Betty, mere feet between them while her eyes scan the girl before her. From this proximity, it's easy to make out the color of her eyes (the darkest of brown), the easy flow of her thick black hair, and the uneasy paleness of her naturally olive skin. 

Betty gnaws gently against her bottom lip, an awkward feeling washing over her as she waits for someone to speak. 

She hadn't even noticed that Jughead had appeared at her side in an instant. Much to her amazement, he had put the gun away at her request. 

"My name is Betty." Finally breaking the silence, Betty decides that it's a smart idea to make acquaintance. After all, it could be another long while before she got the opportunity to speak to another living human. _Besides_ Jughead. "This is Jughead." 

Behind her, Jughead cringes visibly as the stranger raises both brows, but doesn't immediately question the oddity of his name. 

"Veronica." She states, in the flattest tone Betty has ever heard. Then, she sighs, swallowing hard. "We've been here for a few weeks. The pump has served us well- But we're running out of food." 

And then, she looks to both Jughead and Betty expectantly. It's obvious to the two of them right away that she's giving them the opportunity to plead their worth. It was _not_ so obvious to Jughead what 'their' means had been to remove the two of them should they decide that they weren't going to share any rations they might have. 

"Say we have rations to share," Jughead begins, shifting on his feet to step slightly in front of Betty in order to insert himself as the dominant figure, "Then what? You'll _let_ us stay, assuming that we share?" 

A slow nod comes from Veronica. 

"Who's **we**?" Betty immediately questions, giving Jughead a slight shove out of her way. "There's someone else with you?" She peeks around Veronica, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone else in the car. 

This time Veronica shakes her head, chocolate eyes darting to the house. 

Jughead catches sight of her gaze, his head turning to take a look at the large farmhouse behind them. When he turns back to Veronica, his fingers shoot up to adjust the beanie that he secured back against his head before they'd stepped outside. 

"We've already been in there, there's no one home." 

"Come inside." Veronica clears her throat, pushing past the two of them on her way inside the house. "I'll introduce you to Archie."


End file.
